Caroline Moran

HA&L Biographical Sketch for contributor Caroline Moran

        When she was 14 years old, Caroline saw the Beatles -- live. It changed something, and the bastards have been trying to change it back ever since.


Now, enjoy Caroline Moran's The Piper at the Gates. °

[This HA&L biographical sketch and introduction © 2008 CM/PL/C of E, and E of M.]



Editorial Corruption
August 1966. Morning hot and hazy in my backyard. Friends and I are sitting around. Sitting and discussing. Discussing the sad reality that we are going to miss the Beatles concert for the 3rd year in a row. I missed them when I was twelve. I missed them when I was thirteen. No tickets. No possibility of getting tickets. No money. In my mind I am thinking. I am the greatest Beatle fan ever born. This is a fact. This is the fact that my mind is thinking in the hazy hot of the backyard. Next year is an eternity away. How can this have happened again?

24 hours later. The sounds of a commotion bring me into the kitchen. My older brother and two of his friends jumping. Jumping about the room. Jumping in a frenzy of excitement. The night before at Lakeland pool. They have won. A contest. Winners. They have tickets. They are jumping.  There are 3 of them, and my mind calculates. There are four tickets. Me Me Me Me Me. They must offer it to me. How could they not? I am the greatest Beatle fan ever born. What group of 17 year old boys would not want to drag the 14 year old sister of one of them to the biggest event of the summer, not to mention their lives? My mother pleads my case. I am forever in her debt. After begging. After pleading. My brother  gives in. He makes it clear, however, that I am in no way to consider myself ‘with him’ at any time. If looks could kill, I feel I will be lucky to make it to the end of the week.

Saturday the 17th and I am still alive, sick with excitement, and on the bus to Toronto in my new green corduroy paisley ‘stovepipes’ with coordinating green ‘poor boy’ sweater. This thick, fall-type wear is a little warm on this blisteringly hot summer day, but I’m sure I’m looking pretty cool. Toronto. We meld with thousands of others, walking the few blocks to Maple Leaf Gardens. As this huge noisy organism slowly flows into the thousands of seats, I climb up to the ‘greys’ unperturbed by the location. Grateful that I am actually here. For the next 45 minutes or so, whatever constitutes the short set of a 1960’s concert, I scream myself hoarse along with the rest of the 16,000 fans.

The Boys are tiny moving figures far below, their voices just manage to reach our level above the roar of the crowd, but I know that somehow, they know I am here.

© 2008 CM/Corruption PL